


Temper

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (But he's in denial), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Just Wants To Be Loved (Good Omens), Crowley is exhausted, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series Finale, Shippy Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Angel, I told you not to fuss,’ Crowley croaks, somewhere underneath the blankets – and then he emerges, all tousled hair and black vest, looking both three shades paler than usual and more than a little annoyed at the absolute audacity of the angel for bringing him a hot drink.‘It’s no bother,’ Aziraphale bats away his irritation, ‘this should be better for you, especially after you threw the Lemsip at the wall.Andthe hot Ribena.’
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 151





	Temper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livingforazirowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingforazirowley/gifts).



> This is for the lovely, incomparable livingforazirowley, who came to my rescue a week and a half ago when I was having a truly terrible day after my anxiety went through the roof and I was a complete state. They stayed with me, talked me through it and made me feel better. So, this fic is for them, with the deepest and most heartfelt thanks. 
> 
> Feat. poorly Crowley, comforting Aziraphale and a fair bit of talking to plants.

* * *

‘Here you are, my dear,’ Aziraphale declares, letting himself into Crowley’s bedroom with a hip bump to the door, which turns on its heel accordingly – ever so fun, a bit rustic and…chamber-like, but the kind of charming silliness that a child would enjoy, that perhaps Adam and his delightful friends would enjoy pursuing one another round one day; perhaps they ought to have them over one day with their parents’ permission, of course, Crowley had a hard time hiding how much he enjoyed their company, their bravery, their sheer charm – and toddles towards the bed with the tray in hand. ‘Pot of tea.’

‘Angel, I told you not to fuss,’ Crowley croaks, somewhere underneath the blankets – and then he emerges, all tousled hair and black vest, looking both three shades paler than usual and more than a little annoyed at the absolute audacity of the angel for bringing him a hot drink.

‘It’s no bother,’ Aziraphale bats away his irritation, ‘this should be better for you, especially after you threw the Lemsip at the wall. _And_ the hot Ribena.’ He says it with a significant, scolding sort of look; Crowley hisses feebly at him and Aziraphale sighs; sets the tray carefully down on the blankets and then carefully joins him on the bed, laying out beside him in the spare space, conjuring up an extra cushion – tartan, of course – for himself and propping it behind his back.

It takes all of five seconds of resistance for Crowley to admit defeat and snuggle into him, almost spitefully – Aziraphale lifts an arm accordingly to wrap around his shoulders – and watches the demon settle, and sigh, his tired eyes falling shut as he rests his cheek against his chest. Poor boy, Aziraphale thinks. Saves the world and struck down with this.

He grants them both a moment of quiet, gives Crowley the space he needs to settle against him – at length, he runs his hand through his friend’s hair, healthier and softer than it was before, thanks to the bath that Aziraphale ran for him the other day, but still…blunted. Like everything about the demon has been blunted by their world-stopping – or rather, world-not-stopping – adventure. Less vibrant, less suave, less everything that makes him who and what he is – that whom Aziraphale loves so much.

‘Shall I pour for you, my dear?’ he asks quietly, into red locks, pressing his mouth there; gets a creaking sort of moan in return.

‘Just stay here a bit longer,’ is the mutinous mutter, Crowley most determinedly not looking at him; not wanting to admit his weakness out loud. Tries to make it sound like an order – he instructs, Aziraphale follows – and it ends up becoming far too much of a plea.

‘Of course,’ Aziraphale agrees gamely. ‘Of course, my dear. Of course.’

*

It had all been fun and games – all tea at the Ritz and too much alcohol and laughing about the expression on Gabriel and Beezlebub’s faces – until it wasn’t. Stopping time, as it turned out, had been an exhausting venture, and one there was no time to recover from while he and the angel discussed, made conclusions and swapped bodies accordingly.

It was fine – had been fine. For a while, it was fine. They dined, they drank and they dilly-dallied until the staff had to ask them to leave, because they could, because the world was safe and well and a little boy had chosen to stay exactly that and nobody had died – they hadn’t died – and their friendship was known and they were still together.

It was only the next morning in the bookshop, when Aziraphale found Crowley slumped on the floor, chocolates scattered everywhere from the box he had brought in as an intended gift, that he realised the high cost of what Crowley had done – for Adam, for him, for the world because Aziraphale had threatened never to speak to him again if the demon wouldn’t do anything, because in moments like this Aziraphale just didn’t know what to do beyond a nervous titter and a magic trick, because he was the nice one – but Crowley had and always would be the smart one. Aziraphale had been stupid enough to get himself locked up in the Bastille and locked into an impossible situation with a trio of cunning Nazis; Crowley had been the one to get him out with a click of the fingers and a dance across consecrated ground.

He had cursed himself repeatedly as he had scooped Crowley up – exhausted, panting and barely able to walk – and placed him on the sofa, revived him with brandy and a cold cloth and just sat with him a while, murmuring soothing words and waving aside necessary apologies as the demon came back to himself; tried to stand, only to flop down again.

‘I can’t,’ he’d swallowed, looking pained; scared even. ‘Angel, I – I _can’t.’_

Aziraphale had soothed him, shushed him, pressed down his own fright with real determination – only one of them was allowed to be frightened and this time, it most certainly wasn’t him – and fetched him a Lemsip. Which was in turn thrown against the wall, though tellingly away from the books.

He didn’t have a bed, but the sofa miraculously became one with soft cushions and thick blankets. At the very least, it had been a perfect opportunity to keep the shop shut and protect his books from prying customers (if not from Lemsip-throwing demons) and he had sat and breathed and read his books, the first time in a week he had been able to do so. They had passed hours like that, Crowley’s soft snores for company, until night fell. Aziraphale, who after all had never seen the need for sleep – despite Crowley’s best attempts to the contrary – kept on reading; read wonderful little lines of inspiration here and there to himself, or to the demon, still tucked up beside him, dead to the world, but thankfully not actually dead.

He had awoken after three days and they had been optimistic for all of five seconds; Crowley, while able to stagger upright, was as shaky as a pole in a storm and his face had shattered as he had fallen back down again, unable to take it. Aziraphale had steadied him, took his waistcoat off and placed it around his shoulders; Crowley had been hot, far too hot and had a human touched him, their palm would have sizzled, even melted.

‘I want to go home,’ he had said, in something close to panic – his eyes, as wide as shattered windows, were flitting around the shop, his skin _burning –_ and Aziraphale had nodded, put his cardigan around his shoulders and took advantage of the emergency miracle that he had been holding back for such an occasion as this one – not big enough for Armageddon, but rather like a spare tenner in a drawer, it was just handy to have such things around, concealed in a jar on his desk – to drive the Bentley accordingly, all the way back to Crowley’s flat.

And he had stayed.

*

Two days later, Crowley is still shaken, but he’s conscious of his surroundings; comfortable; cooler in this shade. And yet, he’s still not right – Aziraphale can’t let himself linger on the possibility that he might never recover; or if he does, then it will take a century or two to put himself to rights. He doesn’t mind that; he’ll stay with Crowley for as long as he needs him, but he had rather hoped to be doing something a little more enjoyable, preferably with Crowley. Rome, for one; a holiday to the Lake District, for another. And always, always with Crowley.

‘Do you remember when dear little Warlock was poorly?’ he asks over Crowley’s head, watching a light, non-Armageddon drizzle fall down outside; the kind of drizzle that might make one feel cut off, lonely. He already feels outside his element by simply being here. ‘When you would tuck him up, and sing him lullabies –’

‘About destroying the world, yep,’ Crowley nods, tucked into his chest. ‘And he had bad diarrhoea, which was enough to end the world on its own.’ He grimaces, turning to look out of the window as well. ‘He cried a lot. He missed his Dad.’

Aziraphale reaches up – stays his hand for a split second, and then strokes his hair a few times. ‘You always made him feel better, dear. He felt safe with you.’

‘I don’t think he even noticed when I left,’ Crowley murmurs; the sun flits out, lighting up the sky momentarily. It just adds to the melancholy, somehow; the kind of weather that would make a lonely person think back on happier times. Aziraphale cups his scalp, continues to card his fingers through his hair. ‘Was too…involved in his Gameboy. I don’t know where that even came from, I certainly didn’t put that idea into his head.’ He cranes his neck up to stare at Aziraphale. ‘Just…lost him to it. He didn’t even look up when I said goodbye. Five and a half years I’d been there – _we’d_ been there,’ he corrects himself. ‘And he didn’t even look up.’

Aziraphale nods; feels impossibly sorry for his dear friend and yet he knows Crowley would want absolutely none of his pity. Following the example of many a writer whose work has found its way into his shop, it’s best to simply show and not tell.

‘More tea?’ he asks softly.

*

Crowley’s hands are cracked, bleeding, as though his body is turning itself inside out, is determined to break free. He’s shivering again, impossibly cold after the blazing fever, pressing back into anything that’s warm, a cup of tea held to his lips. He huddles into Aziraphale’s side; _a gut that’s good for something, Gabriel,_ he considers with a rare spite, seems reluctant to let go.

‘Here, dear,’ he murmurs, massages Crowley’s hands with hand-cream, smearing it over cracked skin, rubbing and stroking and soothing. Crowley’s eyes fall shut at the contact; the cuddling is one thing, but this, the deliberate press of thumbs against the gap in his fingers, is something else. Crowley didn’t fraternise with humans as much as Aziraphale; didn’t dance with them, eat with them, laugh with them. Or maybe that was just when Aziraphale wasn’t around.

‘You’re good to me, angel,’ he murmurs, perhaps still sleepy, perhaps just more grateful than he’d usually let on, perhaps both and Aziraphale tuts and pushes back his hair.

‘Someone has to be,’ he murmurs; thinks of _our own side_ and the way neither of them fit in with the crowds from which they’ve come and the way it’s translated into _this;_ this quiet thing, this den-like thing, this safety from the world as they give themselves a chance to recover.

‘Though I still think _you’re_ a good person,’ he murmurs, rather daringly into Crowley’s hair and smiles widely when he gets a growl in return; he’s _definitely_ going into the wall when the demon recovers.

 _(When._ Not _if - when)._

*

He coos over and coaxes the plants in Crowley’s flat, praising each and every one of them, assigning them names duly, spraying and watering them generously, often sitting to read to them with the stacks of books he’s brought over while Crowley is resting and leaving books open in the pots so the plants might read for themselves. It seems to do some good – they quiver and thrive with rustle-like hums of contentment, give him the most bountiful and beautiful flowers and press one upon him – he giggles and flutters, feeling rather moved.

‘Oh, thankyou, Edward,’ he pats the plant, which seems to preen under the attention and straightens up a little under his hands. ‘Ferdinand? Are you enjoying Wuthering Heights?’

The slightly smaller plant next to Edward seems a little hesitant to respond, its leaf-shakes a little quieter, and Aziraphale understands completely – gently takes the book away, which isn’t to everybody’s taste after all, and rifles through the book collection that’s manifested itself in the flat over the last week. His dear books can’t be without him for too long.

‘Let’s see – maybe something more modern – ah, yes, here we go,’ he takes out the newest Matt Haig and props that up instead. ‘This chap is rather a staple on Tweeter, whatever that is… This is awfully romantic, it’s about a fellow who lives for centuries. I suppose I can relate,’ he adds with a little laugh.

Right on cue, there’s a croaked, harsh bark from the bedroom. ‘If you haven’t been putting the fear of God into those things like I ordered you to do, angel...’ In tandem, all the plants begin a tremble of a different kind; Aziraphale puts a hand up to calm them.

‘Patience, everyone, he’s just being cranky.’

‘I _heard_ that!’

Aziraphale puts his head around the door – or rather, one half of it, swung wide and open as it is, to give Crowley, leaning upright on his hands, a Look. He’s not quite right, not yet, but he’s looking more alert than he has done in days – more than ready, in fact, to jump out of bed and subject those poor plants to a fresh load of abuse. In other words, closer to himself.

‘Now, dear…’

‘Do _not_ give them ideas,’ Crowley growls. His eyes are wide, but they look far less angry than they do simply wounded. He always looks less angry when he has his glasses off. ‘I told them, time and time again, either they grow properly, like they’re supposed to, or – what’ve you got in your _hair?’_ he cuts across himself to stare at the bud that Aziraphale popped behind an ear and he chuckles, caught, tugs it down.

‘A gift from Edward. Your biggest plant,’ he explains; Crowley groans loud enough to shake the room.

‘Oh, angel – you _haven’t!’_ He falls back into the covers, looking utterly defeated.

‘What’s so wrong with naming them?’ Aziraphale asks with a sniff. ‘They seem to like them.’ He presents the flower to Crowley – it’s red, with a yellow centre, a potential new species. It’s taken grudgingly but with a noticeable care; lifted to the demon’s nose for a slight sniff and his eyebrows raised in something like impressed before he can stop himself.

‘They’re _very_ keen to please,’ Aziraphale adds gently; Crowley glances up, ‘We can’t simply govern ourselves into perfection and wellness, you know.’

He holds his gaze, holds it fast – the closest he’s come to scolding him about it since it happened, since he found Crowley unconscious on his bookshop floor and dashed to his side, certain this was an extra trick that Hell had up their sleeve, or maybe Heaven, that they’d given him something that he’d transferred back across to Crowley with the return of his face, that _maybe –_

Crowley collapses onto the bed, stares up at the ceiling, all petulance and irritation, crossing his elbows. ‘I know,’ he mutters. ‘I know.’

‘It was a terrible fright, finding you like that.’ _Losing you would be unthinkable._

‘I know,’ Crowley says again; a little louder, a little more serious. ‘Sorry, angel.’ Two words a demon should never say, spoken aloud just for Aziraphale. ‘I am sorry, but – you don’t need to do all this, you know.’ He gestures to all of _This:_ the flat, the bed, the state of himself. ‘I didn’t ask for it, I don’t need a carer.’ He sounds petulant; annoyed; angry – and not necessarily with the angel in the room.

‘My dear, you’ve needed a carer since 1856,’ Aziraphale exclaims because it’s obvious Crowley was sitting on the whole Holy Water idea for about a decade or so before he branched it; gets a scoff in return.

‘And I’ve been looking after myself since the beginning.’

‘And me,’ Aziraphale murmurs with a smile; Crowley slowly raises his head from where he’s buried it in his arms to stare at him: fragile and vulnerable, eyes still burning and Aziraphale itches to comfort him. As it is, he can only hover by the bed, shuffle – not embarrassed, but honest. Well – embarrassed at himself, he supposes, more than anything, at how long it’s taken him to realise this.

‘I suppose,’ he clears his throat, ‘I’ve always had it…fairly easy, being an angel. And being a demon, well…’ A raised eyebrow is his only response. ‘I suppose… it occurred to me that I’ve been…quite selfish. I’ve not always looked to your needs and you’ve looked after me constantly and – I’m sorry, my dear. I’m very, very sorry.’

‘S’alright,’ Crowley shrugs; he’s staring hard, all bright eyes and a vibrant mess of hair and Aziraphale sighs; admits defeat altogether and sits on the other side of the bed, on the vacant spot, takes his shoes back off, feeling the demon’s eyes heavy upon him as he lies back down beside him. Crowley wastes no time in immediately squirreling close to his side; Aziraphale raises his arm with a smile, lets him in at once.

‘And I want to be here, with you,’ he assures. ‘You’re my friend, and, well…’

‘I couldn’t stay in the shop,’ Crowley murmurs, voice like gravel, like a confession. ‘I…I was – it was too _hot,_ and it felt like…like everything was – and I – I _couldn’t,_ Aziraphale, I just _couldn’t -_ _’_

‘I know,’ Aziraphale assures; had figured it out days ago, the fire he didn’t see but that Crowley witnessed in all its rage, wishes he could take that away from him, that fear, that helplessness, a shadow of it etched across the demon’s face now, in clear memory – but has a feeling that just like everything else, this will take a while to shift. ‘I know, Crowley. It’s alright.’ He meets his eyes, pushes back some of his fringe, shushes him. ‘Everything’s alright, my dear.’ They’ve got all the time in the world, after all.

‘Didn’t want to lose you again,’ Crowley murmurs, staring up at him. ‘Couldn’t bear it. At least when we weren’t speaking I knew you were _safe –’_

‘I know.’ A thumb stroking Crowley’s cheek, the corner of his eye. ‘I know.’

They look at each other for a moment, Crowley’s hand a loose fist over his chest, something in his face caught; breathless, a little bit helpless. Aziraphale hums, soothingly; takes Crowley’s hand in his own, twines them together over where he fancies his own heart would be, plants the softest kiss to it, the tiniest use of the smallest miracle. Cheating, perhaps, but Crowley deserves it; he presses another kiss to that slightly damp, sweaty forehead for luck – another bath will be due soon, he decides, but they don’t have to move just yet. Not until Crowley is ready.

‘So,’ he asks instead, attentive, because it’s important not to make assumptions on behalf of the patient – read once in a book and learned over several millennia, albeit very slowly, and confirmed by the internet, ‘what are you in the mood for, now?’

Crowley thinks – or pretends to, at least, turns a contemplative pout Aziraphale’s way. ‘Want to watch something on the laptop?’

‘Of course!’ Aziraphale carefully lifts his head off his chest and lays him back down on the covers, before scuttling across the room to collect the portable computer – because that sounds like a delightful prospect, cuddling and watching something that they can both enjoy, honestly, working on these things as well as watching videos on them, human-beings really are _terribly_ clever creatures – brings it back to the bed as Crowley sits up, plumping both sets of pillows.

He’s recovering. It might take another few days, but he _is_ getting there, Aziraphale considers, happy and heartened – even as he fiddles with the laptop, holds its book-like shape between his hands in the position he knows best, uncertain.

‘How do you…?’

Crowley chuffs; clicks his fingers; the laptop rights itself, springs open. Another miracle – a minor one, but another, positive sign. Aziraphale can’t quite let go of his relief as he curls back up on the bed with him, watching him merrily hack into the ITV Hub - technically, he never even _had_ a television license to begin with, not even for the actual television, but of course, that never stopped him - and choosing an episode of _Lewis,_ before leaning his head back into Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale holds him and holds him, nosing his hair carefully, letting that familiar theme-tune fill their shared silence like a comfortable cloak as the rain continues to pelt steadily at the windows.

It’s safe in here, though.

‘Thanks, angel,’ Crowley croaks softly, somewhere along the way. Aziraphale smiles, cards his fingers through those lovely red locks; tucks the bedcovers a little higher over Crowley’s chest and lets himself drift beside him, _exactly_ where he needs to be.

*


End file.
